The Light Between Us

by Poppy Parkes

  “What?” she spat. “What do you want?”

  The man's hazel eyes widened beneath his shaggy blonde mop. “Oh, uh, sorry, I didn't mean to bug you. I just have a penchant for people watching. I'm really sorry.”

  Ruth felt her ears redden as she saw his embarrassment. She shook her head. “Sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.”

  She turned back to her computer with its smugly blinking cursor, but the guy leaned forward. “It gets away from me, sometimes. The people watching, I mean. I get lost in it, you know?”

  Ruth held her breath for a moment, torn between giving him the cold shoulder in the name of her writing, or engaging with him. She glanced at her phone, and a sick, hot feeling swept through her as the memory of the woman's voice answering at Derek's number sprang back to the forefront of her mind. No, she didn't want to try to write, when she knew she'd only spend the rest of her night nursing her hurt. Holding her breath, she turned in her chair back toward the blonde man.

  “I get that,” she said. “People watching can be so much fun.”

  He smiled, and in spite of her freshly wounded heart, the warmth of it tugged at something in her, and she couldn't help but smile back.

  “Are you a writer?” he asked, nodding at her notebook and army of pens flanking the open computer.

  She shrugged. “Trying to be. It's not like I have anything published. And tonight it's not going so well.”

  “I don't know, I see some words. It looks like you're a writer to me.” His hazel eyes glinted. “Publication doesn't make you more of a writer than you already are in this moment.”

  “Oh,” she said, words eluding her. She traced over the wood grain of the table with a finger. “That might be the best writing encouragement anyone has ever given me.”

  He ducked his head as if tipping an invisible hat at her. “At your service,” he said, extending a hand toward her. “I'm Sam.”

  “Hi, Sam. I'm Ruth.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ruth the writer.” He winked, and the smile returned to her lips.

  She nodded at the laptop he'd been alternately tapping at and ignoring since she'd arrived at the coffee shop. “What are you doing here tonight?”

  Sam crooked his eyebrows at her. “I'm writing. Or,” he wrinkled his nose, “trying to. Poetry. And tonight's not going so well. I've been very distracted by this very lovely writer woman, you see.”

  “Well,” she said, cocking an eyebrow right back, “you know it's not publication that makes you any more of a writer than you are right now, right here.”

  He nodded, grinning. “Sage advice.”

  “And,” she said, shoving all caution away, suddenly emboldened by heartache, “as for the distraction . . . sometimes I find that you can't get past writing distractions until you indulge a little, get them out of your system.”

  “Hm,” said Sam, tugging at his blonde tendrils, “so you're saying I should, ah, indulge in this woman?”

  “I think,” she said, closing her laptop and sweeping the pens and notebook off the table and into her bag, “you should invite her out for a drink, or maybe let her take you back to her place.” She shrugged her arms into her coat, feeling deliciously shocked at herself and thinking it strange that she didn't feel more nervous.

  “Okay,” he said, nodding and smiling even wider. “So, will you do me the honor of joining me for a little fun tonight, Ruth the writer?”

  She smiled, nervous but strangely sure. “I thought you'd never ask, Sam the poet.”

  Tugging his computer's power cable from the wall, he wound up the cord and clicked the laptop shut, stowing both into a green messenger bag that had been slung over the back of his chair. He stood and offered his arm.

  “Shall we?” he said, gesturing toward the door.

  Ruth stood and took his arm, sliding her phone into her coat pocket with her other hand, her heart hammering in excitement. Had she really just picked up a guy for – what? Drinks? A night together? She swallowed hard. She didn't know what she was doing, and didn't care that she didn't know.

  As they left the coffee shop, Ruth felt her phone buzz again from her pocket. She shoved her hand in and set the ringer to silent.

  * * *

  Derek glared at his phone, not sure whether he wanted to curse it, plead with it, or hurl it against the brick wall he was leaning against. He'd been pacing the streetlamp-lit streets of Cambridge since he'd left Ridger and Sandra, the phone pressed to his ear as he dialed Ruth's number, the only answer coming from her voicemail. He didn't want to think about how many times he had called her.

  That fucking Sandra. He should have known better than to leave his phone laying about with her nearby. But he hadn't wanted to miss it if Ruth decided to call him, so he'd set it on their table and then forgotten it when he went to order a round of drinks.

  Damn. Fucking damn.

  He didn't even know Ruth's address. Would that be considered stalking, showing up at her place unannounced at night? Was calling her again and again stalking? Derek cringed.

  The navy black of the sky unfurled beyond the glare of the streetlights and the passing traffic that still flowed, although it had slowed from its daytime rigor. He leaned his head back against the rough mortar that reached out from between the rust-colored bricks, sighing deeply as he squinted through the city brightness at the eternity that lay beyond the urban hum and scent of exhaust.

  “Please,” he whispered into the chill of the night. “Please.” He wasn't sure exactly what he was asking for. Another chance with Ruth, at least. The opportunity to explain, to clear the misunderstanding and hurt that she surely must have choked on when Sandra answered her call.

  The click-click-click of high heels wafted toward him. He turned to the sound, and felt his mouth dangle open in disbelief when he saw none other than Padme round the corner.

  “Holy. Shit.” He glanced skyward again. “Thanks?” he muttered through his shock. Was this actually happening?

  Padme squinted as she marched forward, toward him. “Derek?” she asked. A smile began to slide across her lips, then stopped as suddenly as her feet did. Her hands flew to her hips, handbag dangling from one wrist. “Wait. What's going on? I thought Ruth was going to call you tonight.”

  He shook his head. “She did.”

  Her mouth morphed into a thin, angry line. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” he said, extending his open hands toward her in a gesture that felt completely unfamiliar, if earnest. “There was a – misunderstanding. And now she won't answer my calls.”

  “What kind of misunderstanding, exactly? If you broke her heart after she put it out there for you –”

  “I was out with some friends of mine. I'd stepped away from our table, but I left my phone there. And then Ruth called, and Sandra – my friend's girl – answered it because she is – God, I don't know how to even begin to explain her. Anyway, Ruth heard a woman answer my phone, and thought the worst.”

  “Can you blame her, after what happened this morning?” Padme rolled her eyes with a groan. “Look, I don't know what she sees in you. I don't think she knows, either. But she likes you. My dear, sweet, amazing friend who hasn't let a guy into her life in a real way in a long while has let you in. And you are not treating that as the gift that it is.”

  “I know,” Derek said, throwing his hands up in the air. “Do you think I don't know that? Someone like me doesn't deserve someone like her. But I like her. I really like her – and let me tell you, that is new for me, too, although in a different way from how it's new for Ruth. I am serious when I tell you – and was serious when I told her – that I want to do right by her, to see what we could be together.”

  “Well, right now she is probably heartbroken, and you are still a douche bag. That is what you are together. And if that's how it's going to be with you in her life, then the sooner you are gone, the better, as far as I'm concerned.” Padme moved to continue down the sidewalk, but Derek held out a hand.

  �
�Wait, please.”

  She stomped one of her heels against the ground. “What?”

  “I know I don't deserve it. I know I don't deserve her. But can you help me get in touch with her, at least to explain that I didn't lie? To explain that it was my friend's girlfriend on the phone, not a random hookup?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because,” he said slowly, groping for the right words, “you love Ruth. You don't want her to hurt. And you said it yourself – that she is probably very hurt right now. If I can explain what happened, it'll help her hurt less, right?”

  Padme scowled and shook her glossy mane in irritation. “I guess.”

  “She doesn't have to give me another chance if she doesn't want to. I don't expect that. I just – I really need to explain. And . . .” he flashed what he hoped was an endearing and apologetic half smile, “you seem like the kind of woman who enjoys a man begging for forgiveness.”

  A hint of amusement entered Padme's eyes. “You're right, I do like that. But only if the guy doing the begging is worth knowing after the forgiveness is given. And I'm not sure you are.”

  “That's fair. Although I've never thought about it before, I guess I'm not sure I am worth it either.” He leaned back against the wall again, tipping his eyes toward the sky. “But I damn sure wouldn't mind finding out.”

  Padme stood scowling at him for a moment in silence, arms crossed protectively across her chest. Then she sighed in exasperation. “Fine. Fine. I'll help.”

  He stood up straight, blood suddenly coursing fast with excitement. “Seriously? Thank you, Padme, so much.”

  “Well, don't get too worked up yet, tiger,” she grumbled. “It's not like she's taken you back yet.” She fumbled in her handbag, coming up with a scrap of paper and a pen. “I'm giving you her address,” she said, scribbling. “Here's what you're going to do. Tomorrow morning, text her that you are coming by for a moment. Then you are going to show up at her apartment with some dark chocolate and the biggest bouquet of white roses you can get your hands on. If she answers the door, you will explain, but mostly you will grovel. If she doesn't, you will leave the flowers at the door with a letter expressing your sorrow. From there, it's up to her. You will not call her again, unless she asks you to. You will not see her, visit her, whatever her, ever. Got it?”

  Derek nodded, reaching to take the slip of paper she held out to him. “Got it.”

  But before he could lay hold of the scrap, she held it back out his reach. “This advice isn't coming free. I'm giving you her address. Now I want something from you – your address. So I can come kick you in the balls if you hurt her more.”

  “Fair enough.” Derek dug into a pocket for his wallet and extracted a business card from it. “Does this work?”

  She snatched the card, handing over the paper with Ruth's address on it. “Don't screw it up,” she said, nodding. “And don't make me regret helping you.”

  “I won't.” He swallowed hard. “I hope, anyway.”

  Padme rolled her eyes. “I hope you're as whipped as you act. I'd say good luck, but I'd mostly be lying. And I can't say that I hope I'll see you around, either. So I'll just say see you, and hope that you don't do any more damage to my friend's heart.”

  With that, she stalked past him, wafting sandalwood perfume his way. He watched her go, clutching the scrap of paper with Ruth's address as if he was a drowning man clinging to a life preserver. He remained where he stood long after the clacking sound of Padme's shoes against the sidewalk faded and the night's deepening cold began leeching into his marrow. He didn't want to go home to his empty apartment, where he knew he'd be too anxious for the morning to be able to sleep. But in the end he did slide toward the nearest T station, heading homeward. At least he could take a nice long shower and be fresh for what he hoped would be his rendezvous and reconciliation with Ruth.

  Damn, I hope this works, he thought as he descended into the warm, sour smelling atmosphere of the subway. He needed it to. And he was feeling less and less uncomfortable with this uncharacteristic-for-him needing something deep with a woman. And not just any woman. This woman. Ruth.

  Padme called him whipped. Maybe she was right. He'd always cringed at the word when he heard it used to describe other men, never wanting it to be used on himself. But now, he found he didn't care so much, as long as he could get just one more chance with Ruth. Again.

  Chapter 5

  Morning light slipped in through the single window in Ruth's bedroom, nudging her slowly from sleep into deliciously lazy wakefulness. She loved being home in the mornings to watch the way the light hit her walls in ways she didn't get to see during the week, when she had to be at work so early. It felt extravagant to wake up slowly with the earth and sky.

  She stretched, languid and deep, then froze when her foot brushed up against something in the bed next to her that was definitely not her cat. All cozy feelings draining from her limbs, she turned her head to take in the sleeping form of a blonde, wiry man next to her in bed.

  There was a man. In her bed. A – she peeked under the sheets – naked man. Sam. She swallowed hard, realizing she was naked, too.

  Ruth scrunched her eyes closed. She remembered their meeting in the coffee shop in spite of her crankiness, and how she'd practically thrown herself at him. They'd left the coffee shop and gone to a nearby bar for a few drinks, and then stumbled – okay, she was the only one stumbling, having had more alcohol than she was used to – back to her place. And then –

  In spite of her uncertainty at sharing her bed with a relative stranger, something deep within her trilled with excitement at the memory of their night together. The way his body had moved over hers, into hers, with hers . . .

  Her rising anxiety began to thaw and dissipate. Why shouldn't she be bold, indulge in some sensual fun?

  Derek does it all the time.

  She winced as the thought came unbidden. But then Ruth rolled toward Sam, curling her body close to his warmth that felt somehow both soft and hard at the same time, as if rolling away from the thought and the memory of Derek.

  Sam stirred beneath her touch. “Hey,” he said, hazel eyes crinkling open, meeting hers with a smile.

  “Hey back,” she said, smiling, too.

  He reached an arm around to her back and drew her in closer, index finger working in tiny swirls across her skin. She shivered.

  “That feels good,” she said.

  “You feel good,” he replied, kissing the top of her head. “You felt good last night, too.”

  “And early this morning,” she reminded him.

  “Mmm,” he said, remembering. “I'm so glad I stared at you like a creepy stalker yesterday evening.”

  “Me, too. Eventually, at least.” She kissed his chest.

  “I should try it more often.” A teasing lilt entered his voice.

  “With someone else?” She shoved him playfully. “Don't you dare.”

  “Hm, are you jealous?” He grabbed her and rolled them both so that he was laying on top of her. She could feel his growing hardness nudge up against her and shivered.

  “Maybe,” she said, breath quickening as she took in the unfamiliar and yet very familiar face just inches from her own.

  “Well,” Sam said, grinning, “you shouldn't be, because I never pick up girls like this. Or really, get picked up by girls. Neither ever happens to me, actually.”

  “Me, neither,” she murmured. “But I'm not complaining.” She arched her neck up and pressed her lips to his, a slow and melting kiss, the thrilling softness of his lips massaging her own.

  “Never,” he breathed, and then he pushed into her, and she gasped at the delicious shock of it as they became one.

  Sam groaned. “You feel so good,” he said as he moved over her and into her and over her.

  And he felt good, too, hard and soft in all the right ways, and exactly what she needed. Ruth felt like the best she could do was hang on and feel it all, breathlessly, wordlessly, so grazed her teet
h across his shoulder in response, too distracted to be shocked at herself.

  But even as he thrust faster and deeper, eliciting cries from her that she barely heard, a small, still corner of her brain whispered for Derek.

  Angrily, Ruth shoved away the thought of the man who had hurt her and rolled over Sam so that she perched atop him, dropping herself onto him harder and harder, breath coming in rasping pants, riding him with a fury she hadn’t known she possessed.

  Sam’s eyes wandered her body as he rose to meet her, matching her rhythm and intensity, eyes on fire, and then she was there, at the edge, arching her back as every part of her form tensed, teetering for an exquisite moment before spilling over into a cavern of ecstasy and feeling. Ruth threw herself into the orgasm, body and mind, letting the waves of raw sensation overwhelm her, make her forget, for a little while, while Sam reached his own release beneath her.